Life was good
by majothemexican
Summary: On Harry's family. Picture by Jim Jay
1. A stolen mars bar

My first piece of work for Harry, and the first at all in a long time. Hope you enjoy

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Harry washed the dishes silently after dinner. This chore had become so natural to him, he hardly ever needed think about it as he did it. Scrub, rinse, set aside. The height of the sink was uncomfortable for him, and he hated always having to search for the little stool he always used for reaching the appliances, and that Dudley always used to reach the cabinets.

His task seemed endless, however. As soon as Harry seemed to be about finished, Aunt Petunia would promptly prop another dish or two on top of the counter beside him, and he would have to supress another disappointed sigh. If he didn't, Aunt Petunia would be angry at him, and then he'd have to make up a fake reason for his disappointment, and then he'd regret ever sighing at all, because she wouldn't believe him no matter what he said. She'd sniff and say "Awfully rude you are, boy" and then pile more dishes in his already full pile -if he was lucky- and where's the use in that? So Harry did his best for his frustration to remain unnoticed, and tried to scrub away the scorched food in Aunt Petunia's extremely expensive Aker Trademarked Stainless Steel Deluxe Frying Pan.

In the past, Harry used to always wonder why Dudley never had to do any chores, and he even dared ask his aunt and uncle one first and last time. They hadn't answered him, but Aunt Petunia had gone very serious, and Uncle Vernon very red, and then they had insisted that Harry was trying to skive off his chores, and he ought not to be wandering around, beady-eyed and on the lookout for excuses not to do what he must. Harry had left it at that, and somehow, he was learning to accept the fact that if he was doing so much around the house and Dudley wasn't, it was more probable that it was so because the Dursleys wanted it that way rather than for another, more logical reason.

It didn't matter. Right now, Harry was thinking about the mars bar he had knicked from the large bag his aunt and uncle had bought Dudley last week; Harry had hidden it inside a trainer that hadn't fit for years, and he'd enjoy it as soon as he was done with the silverware. His hands felt foreign and sort of swollen, like they get when you stay in the bath for too long. The cutlery escaped and scraped his hands more often than not, dropping back in the soapy water. It seemed like another lifetime had passed -during which Dudley had raided the kitchen at least twice more, and Aunt Petunia had scolded Harry at least three times and instructed him on how to rinse a glass properly- but at last, he was done.

"Aunt Petunia, I'm finished here." Harry said, drying his hands in his trousers, hopping off the stool, and putting it away.

She looked at him as if he was a very annoying bug "Use the hand towel to dry yourself, boy, and go and get the mop," Aunt Petunia frowned "look at all the mess you did!" Harry stared at the small puddle of soapy water in the floor confusedly. This was a big mess? "Nevermind, then," she said, when he didn't act immediately, and pushed him not too gently into the corridor "I'll clean this all up! You're much more trouble than you're worth." And she shut Harry out of the kitchen. Did he still need to get the mop? Or had he been set free already? He stared at the door for a full minute, then decided on the latter. He had a stolen mars bar waiting for him inside his cupboard, he was done with chores, and Dudley was entirely too focused on the telly and the sweets around him to bother Harry at all.

Life was good.


	2. An unbroken porcelain sink

This one is much, much longer! This time, I wanted to write about an experience of accidental magic that we hand't heard about yet. I thought of the time Harry appeared on top of a building to scape Dudley and his minions, and this is what came out. When I was little, I broke my bathroom's sink without realizing it and had a really bad time. Thankfully Harry here had a different experience. Originally i had not planned on continuing this, but the last chapter made me feel very weird, and i somehow felt compelled to keep on writing about this very traumatic period not many seem to write about. I promise I'll write something more lighthearted next time.

I'll answer guest reviews at the end, so for now, please enjoy:

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Harry Potter was used to weird things happening around him, but nothing had surprised him yet as much as when he un-broke his aunt and uncle's bathroom sink. In fact, now that he thought about it, the breaking of the sink had been a very weird event itself.

His aunt had sent him upstairs to take a shower after making him deep clean the cabinets. Nevermind that they weren't that dirty in the first place; Harry even had to dust corners of the kitchen he didn't know existed. They had started at it in the morning, when Uncle Vernon had taken Dudley on a father-son outing, and they had been working well past lunchtime. Harry had eaten cheese sandwiches, which Harry was glad for, (both because she had allowed him seconds, and because sandwiches were one of the things even Aunt Petunia couldn't ruin for him) and his aunt had made herself a very gourmet-looking ham sandwich. After they had finished, Aunt Petunia had taken a look at him that had quickly set an expression of disgust on her face, and sent him up after telling him to try not to touch the walls or rub against anything. He didn't really understand what she meant; Harry was very certain he wasn't a rag, to be dragged on top of the furniture! He guessed she didn't want him to smear anything with sweat; but still Harry climbed the stairs silently.

Harry's legs felt like they were made of lead and his arms felt a little useless just hanging beside him, yet he felt strangely elated. Perhaps, if his aunt was as tired as he was, she would forget about giving him anything more to do until supper, and Harry would be allowed to hang around the back yard enjoying the fine weather that had come to Little Whinging that day. He had been thinking of the bench in the garden and the cool breeze that started to come at the end of July when it all happened. If you asked him, he would never be able to tell all the exact details, but one thing was for sure: he had washed his face -still thinking of the possibilities of the day ahead of him-, he had slipped, had tried to stop his fall by grabbing the sink, he had heard a very loud creak and crash, and then there had been water pouring all over him, pain blossoming in his right side, and he was on the floor. He was a bit slow to react –he was so focused on the pain he was feeling-, and he heard a loud squeak and what he guessed were Aunt Petunia's thundering steps coming upstairs. Harry picked himself up to quickly lock the door before his aunt could get inside the bathroom like a wrecking ball and make everything much worse than it already was.

But how bad was it? Harry tried to assess the damage.

The sink was hanging from the wall like a withering plant, the plumbing spraying water everywhere, and there was a puddle that he was afraid at some point it would start to really look like a lake. He looked around frantically for something that could help him stop the chaos. Aunt Petunia was already rapping the door and her voice sounded panicky and shrill. ("Open up, boy! Open the door right this moment!") But right at that moment Harry was more concerned on fixing the mess. He almost jumped to the perch where he had hung his towel, ignoring his throbbing shoulder and hip, and threw it on the floor, hoping it'd absorb most of the water, but it quickly became darker as it dampened. It would not hold for long. What was he going to do now? He tried very hard not to let the panicked, and desperate bubble he felt in his throat come out of his mouth. What was he going to do? He watched the knob rattle dangerously, and Harry realized -feeling the horror run down his back- that Aunt Petunia had gotten tired of asking nicely and had taken matters into her own hands. He backed against the still gushing sink until he was clamping his hands on the porcelain with a viselike grip, as if the sink was his anchor. Harry shut his eyes tightly and tried to prepare himself for what was sure to come.

The door burst open, and Aunt Petunia burst in.

" _You_ _dim-witted, stupid boy!"_ She gripped his arm and hurled him around so he was facing the wet towel in the floor. " _What happened here?!"_ She threw him to the floor. "Pick it up! _Pick it up! Now!"_

Harry tried to ignore the sharp pain and the anger he felt when he fell on his knees, and started gathering the sopping wet towel from the bathroom floor. "I slipped! I'll just fix it!" He got up as quickly as he could, frowning.

" _I - don't - care!"_ Aunt Petunia said, shoving him into the shower stall, towel and all. "You're almost nine years old!" She turned both valves on, and water started to rain down on him. " _Disgusting,_ is what you are! You should have a better control of your body by now!"

Suddenly, Harry understood perfectly what Aunt Petunia thought had happened. His face burnt with embarrassment. He decided to clear up this whole misunderstanding right away before her head got to even more stupid conclusions. "It was the _sink_ , Aunt Petunia!-" He pointed to the sink's general direction. "Don't you see _?_ -I broke it! And now there's water all over!"

"You _filthy_ liar! There's absolutely _nothing_ wrong with the sink!" His aunt slammed the door of the bathroom closed, but kept yelling at him through it. "Stop making stupid excuses for your actions!" He heard her walking away. "And you will wash the rugs when you're finished cleaning up!" Then he heard her muttering away about disgusting boys and recently washed bathroom rugs.

Harry tried to fight the humiliation. "I- I didn't lose control of my body! Can't you _see_? The sink is spraying water from the plumbing right over-" But where the sink currently was, he never got to say, because he suddenly became more interested in the sink's condition rather than its location. You see, Aunt Petunia was right: There was absolutely nothing wrong with the sink. Nothing wrong at all.

He washed his face twice or thrice, and even shot his hand out of the stall to grab his glasses and shove them in his face. He had thought he wasn't seeing clearly, but he was wrong. There was nothing wrong with the sink at all. But he had been sure it was broken! The water hadn't shown up out of nowhere, and it definitely hadn't been the product of his lack of control of his bodily functions. The sink had definitely been broken! He was as certain about it as the fact that his name was Harry Potter.

Weird…

Perhaps it hadn't really been broken? Perhaps it was already loose, and he had shifted it out of place when he slipped? Then he had pushed it back into place when he had backed into it, waiting for his aunt to show up…

Yes. That had to be it.

After all, actually-broken porcelain sinks couldn't fix themselves, could they?

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"Guest chapter 1 . Feb 21

Psychological abuse is so pervasive, intrusive and sinister. Well done."

Thank you very much. To be honest, your review had me stumped, but it was ultimately the reason I decided to continue this. I hadn't consciously written in the psychological abuse. I was thinking of an episode in my childhood and thought it'd be something that could likely happen to young Harry here.


	3. A crooked building

A small drizzle rained down on top of the roof of a house in Devon. The house looked like each floor had fallen from the sky; had fallen and stayed stacked that way, like the universe had been indifferent about following logic, or gravity. If a normal person could have seen it, they would have pointed, and called their friends over so they could go and see. Perhaps it was a new attraction? A sort of prank house?

If they could have _seen_ it. But, as it was, they could not. Normal people would not even think about what laid behind the hills, because to be able to see the house or even get near it, you needed to have a special characteristic.

You needed to be a wizard. And fortunately for him, Harry Potter was one such man. Well… boy, to be more exact, so he had the privilege of being able to see the odd masterpiece that was the Weasleys' home. The Weasleys' was always busy and noisy in some way or another. The Burrow, which was the name of the house, was always groaning and creaking, and loud stomps could be heard from when everybody ran up and down the stairs. So there Harry sat on the couch in the sitting room, and he was _loving_ this place. He could not stare long enough at anything on sight. He took in all of the small bits and odds whenever his eyes turned to. From the completely brilliant clock that showed the family's whereabouts, to the pots that cleaned themselves, to the gnomes scurrying back into the garden, to the weird jars and pitchers filled with weird substances, to the table with mismatched chairs, to the comfortable yet worn couch he was sitting on. Let us just say, Harry simply could not get enough of this place.

He knew Ron was uncomfortable. He knew it because whenever Harry would stare for too long, Ron would start to shift in his seat, and his ears would turn red, and even though he tried to hide it from Harry, Harry knew. He had tried to control himself; he didn't want to make Ron uncomfortable, but it was all so interesting. It wasn't just the carrots chopping themselves in the kitchen counter, nor the garden, nor the clock. He had known about magic for a year, and he was curious, yes; but there was something about The Burrow that Harry had never met before. Ron would try to distract him, but eventually, Harry's eyes would return to the uncut grass outside, or the marks in the dining table, or a badly concealed drawing (that apparently Fred and George had done when little) on the sitting room wall. Or his ears would alert him and pull him into an argument between Percy and the twins, or Ron's voice carrying upstairs from the kitchen: "Mum-! I'm fine, mum! You should really look at Ginny, though-she's the one that got scraped worse-No, she's trying to hide it but-!"

Harry knew he was upsetting Ron somehow with his attitude, but he didn't know what to do about it, so he just tried to act more like a normal kid. He tried to be the best guest as possible: He got downstairs when he was asked to, ate when it was time for breakfast, lunch and supper, and he offered to do chores, but Mrs. Weasley never let him do anything. To be quite honest, Harry was feeling a little awkward about it too. The Weasleys were so good to him, and he felt like he was being a burden. For the first time in his life, Harry felt bad about not doing anything around the house, and every time he was (quite reluctantly, too) asked by Mrs. Weasley to do something, as big or small as it would be, Harry felt some sort of relief. With this routine, it was actually a long time before anything was even done about this awkwardness.

The sky had started to turn soft pink and lavender over Ottery St. Catchpole, in Devon.

They had been woken up by the ghoul up in the attic, and the ruckus had been going on for an hour now, so both Harry and Ron had been tossing and turning without being able to go back to sleep. Harry saw the outline of his friend's bright red hair move out of the corner of his eye as he examined the ceiling with interest.

Ron turned his whole body around so he could face Harry, who laid on the makeshift bed half a meter away from him. "Harry-" he whispered. "Do you really think-?" and he stopped.

Harry groaned as he sat up. "I do think, thank you, Ron" Harry smiled jokingly, but Ron didn't respond for a while, and Harry got a weird feeling of vague alarm. "Ron?"

Ron sat up and started massaging his left shoulder. Harry knew Ron's shoulders and knees had been giving him occasional pain.

"Do you want me to call Mrs. Weasley upstairs?"

Ron left his shoulders alone. "No,-" Ron said, momentarily alarmed. He hesitated. "Listen, Harry, you can tell me the truth."

"The truth? About what?" Now, he was intrigued.

Ron gave a long sigh and laid back down on his bed. "You can tell me. I know you said it was brilliant before, but I think you changed your mind." Ron waved his hand around like he was saying _'all this'_ "I saw the house you live in "

Harry laid back down on the bed. "Ron, I _told_ you! Your house is brilliant." Harry yawned "Besides, I hate that house" Harry turned over. "I wish I lived in a place like your home."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

They stayed quite for a little bit, and then Ron sat back up.

"But you're always staring at everything and looking so awkward!"

The black haired boy didn't turn around, but he let out a couple of "uh..." "er...".

"I didn't want to be… Uh… getting in the way?"

Ron could tell the question had made Harry uncomfortable, but his friend answered him anyway.

"Your family is great though." Said Harry in a whispering voice. Ron made a loud sound of disbelief. "I wish my family was like yours."

Ron, laughed as he turned over.

"Well… I don't mind sharing, you know."

Harry smiled widely.


End file.
